


Absolution

by valamerys



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, catholic themed smut, religious hang-ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 01:16:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12446228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valamerys/pseuds/valamerys
Summary: Azriel is a buttoned-up catholic priest, and Lucien has some sins to atone for-- and a very specific idea of how he'd like to do it.





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> only dubiously edited and even more dubiously in-character. i will see you all in hell.

“I’m a sinner, Father,” Lucien breathes, and undoes another button of Azriel’s cassock. “I need your help.”

The worst thing about it isn’t Lucien’s silky hair brushing Azriel’s knuckles, or the way it makes Azriel’s cock twitch traitorously in his pants— no, the worst thing about it is how sincere the words sound, how dark and depthless a plea this demon of a man plies him with. Azriel clutches the rosary wound between his fingers so hard he thinks he can feel the wooden beads digging into his bones.

Lucien laves at the revealed hollow of Father Azriel’s throat as he peels back the cassock, and Azriel’s breath stutters at the hellfire heat of that mouth against his skin.  _ Stop this _ , he should say,  _ this is highly inappropriate, I’ll have to ask you to leave my congregation if this is how you behave— _

But he doesn’t say any of it. It’s too late for that, isn’t it? The man didn’t start sitting in the front row of church three weeks ago, staring at Azriel over the altar rail with a smirking, sultry gaze to  _ not _ eventually request a private, after-hours confession in the sacristy.

Maybe he can read minds. Maybe he knows that in the shameful dark of the rectory, Azriel’s gotten himself off on the memory of placing the eucharist on Lucien’s tongue, on the way those wet, dark lips close obscenely around it, so close to Azriel’s fingers. Maybe he can read minds because he’s a demon, come to damn him. Or the devil himself, even. It would explain the fire-red hair.

Lucien kisses the edge of Azriel’s jaw, almost sweet in contrast to the way his hand slips inside Azriel’s undershirt and his nails scratch lightly up his abdomen.

“I need you to help me repent, father,” It’s almost a moan, and Azriel can feel the breath of the words against his lips. “I need you to help me get on my knees and  _ pray _ .”

Azriel thinks he might stop breathing as the tremor of that idea runs through him, pools in his stomach and his hardening cock. His— shit.  _ Shit _ .

Panic overtakes him, the shame of his vows crawling up his neck beneath Lucien’s kisses there, but instead of protests, what spills from his mouth is pure instinct, his eternal comfort, his automatic response to fear:

“Our father, who art in heaven—”

Lucien laughs sweetly, wraps a long brown finger around the bit of Azriel’s rosary left to drip from his fist as Azriel goes on. “Your god can’t save you from  _ this _ ,” he croons, and his other hand goes to Azriel’s erection, rubbing him through his trousers.

“--Thy kingdom come, thy w-will be done—” Azriel stammers but does not stop, breathless and half terrified, half rapt. He’s bigger than Lucien in the shoulders, he could push him away, make him stop this madness, but he is helpless, as pinned by his wanting as the wooden Christ is to the crucifix on the wall across from them.

“Please don’t be upset with me, Father,” Lucien whispers, and he’s that sincere, seeking penitent again, switching moods mercurially, as smoothly as he slips the button on Azriel’s trousers. “I just want to repent. I want to worship.”

“Give us this day our daily bread—” Azriel chokes out, and Lucien drops smoothly to his knees, nuzzling the bulge that juts out and makes a tent of Azriel’s smallclothes, making Azriel’s hips buck involuntarily at the feeling. Fuck, he’s so sensitive. “And forgive us our tresspasses, as we forgive those—  _ fuck _ —”

Lucien’s deft hands pull the fabric away and his wicked serpentine tongue darts out to taste Azriel’s cock, drawing a wet line from base to tip and making Azriel cuss as he hasn’t since the seminary, nerves sparking, flooding him with shameful pleasure.

“Those who-- “ He gasps, trying to regain his place in the prayer, clinging with both hands to the rosary. His body trembles as Lucien’s breath ghosts against his cock. “Those who tresspass against us.”

Lucien takes the tip in his mouth, and the delicacy of it, the way his eyes dart up to Azriel’s, the posture of supplication, is identical to him taking eucharist during mass. Azriel nearly comes just from the sight, and the prayer becomes a long groan as Lucien’s lips descend, taking him in inch by inch.

The rosary in his hands breaks from the force of Azriel’s grip. Lucien’s mouth is hot bliss, heaven and hell and fuck, Azriel would suffer damnation a dozen times over for this. Fuck his vows.

“Shit,” Azriel growls, as Lucien sucks, begins bobbing his head gently, using a hand on the rest of his thick length.

Something about the expertise of it is suddenly infuriating. Azriel has been tempted before— God knows, he had been tempted— but no one, no one has gotten past his defenses, has made his devotion crumble and his vows into ashes. And this man— this  _ demon—  _  simply walked through his inhibitions like they were as insubstantial of smoke, had his hard cock in hand in a matter of minutes.

Azriel drops the broken rosary, and Lucien flicks his tongue over the head of his cock on the upstroke, making Azriel’s jaw clench, making heat and hate and shame swell in his throat.

“Fucking whore,” he says. There’s no vitriol behind it— Azriel has never said those words before, lacks the instinct to make them harsh, but still, he preaches light so often and so long that the poison on his tongue is sharp and refreshing, cool as water.

Lucien gives a little strangled noise around the cock in his mouth, looks up at Azriel helplessly as he pumps.

It’s a revelation. “Do you like me calling you what you are, sinner? Are you repenting for what a terrible slut you’ve been?”

He barely recognizes his own voice, saying such vulgar things, but Lucien’s eyes grow glossy and he gives the attempt of a nod. It sets Azriel’s blood on fire. He slowly places one of his empty hands on Lucien’s head, guides him to a slightly different pace. “God won’t forgive you unless you perform your penance  _ correctly _ .”

He grunts when Lucien picks it up effortlessly, tongue scraping him in a half a dozen tiny sensitive spots he didn’t know he had— it’s been so long, and Lucien feels so good, drool escaping his lips as the sucking gets sloppy here and there.

Azriel swears again at the building in his belly, the white hot holy fire of his orgasm threatening to overtake him. Lucien sucks him deeper, and the tightness of his lips around Azriel’s base is almost unbearable.

“Filthy arrogant whore,” he says again, stronger this time, and anchors a hand in Lucien’s hair. “You came to church just to seduce the preacher. Is this what you wanted?” He tightens the fist in Lucien’s hair, bucks his hips to meet his mouth, and Lucien whimpers as he struggles to maintain his pace against the force of it. “You say you seek forgiveness. I’m a priest of the old way of thinking, Lucien; you have to earn it.”

He grips fistfulls of that beautiful read hair with both hands now, fucks Lucien’s mouth relentlessly, relishing in every gag and cry muffled by his cock, in the feeling of the back of Lucien’s tight throat. He thinks fleetingly of finishing the prayer, as his strokes grow erratic, as desperation near to panic grips him:

_ And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. _

Azriel surrenders to the heat and it’s not holy fire at all but the flames of hell that burn through him in a long instant as he holds Lucien in place fiercely, cumming down his throat with a cry that rings off the forbidding stone walls.

When he can manage it, he pries his fingers from the red hair and slumps back against his desk, panting harshly.

“Amen.”

Lucien is a profane mess, lips swollen and face red and tear-streaked, but he stares at Azriel beatifically, reaching up with a shaking hand to brush stray come from the corner of his mouth. 

After several attempts to speak, he manages a raspy, “Thank you, father.”


End file.
